


a common arrangement

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fist Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff-ish?, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Slow Burn, Sparring, Suffering, also not very fluffy anymore, for the author as well, misery for all, slow as i can make it anyway, very very super dooper serious writing here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Jaime is sent to grow up on Tarth, where he can ingratiate himself with his someday-bride and her father.What couldpossiblygo wrong.





	1. Brienne I

**Author's Note:**

> if consensual behavior between teenagers bothers you, ASOIAF is not the right series for you to read. and neither is this fic. 
> 
> *
> 
> updates ... whenever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written mid-June 2019.

Jaime’s hand was bleeding. He looked down and shrugged, then pulled back to punch the other boy again.

Aris went down this time, into the dirt, and finally Brienne found her voice. “Stop! Don’t.”

“Did you hear what the lady said, Aris?”

“I was talking to you, runt.”

“Me!”

“You’re the one beating him. Come on, my father will want to hear of this.” She had him by the arm, walking fast; it was all he could do to stumble along.

“Brienne, he called you a —”

“I know what he said.” She didn’t, she hadn’t been listening, but the words were all the same. What difference did it make? “That doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

His mouth was set. “You _didn’t_ hear what he said about you, or you’d be egging me on.”

“If I want someone beaten I can do it myself. I don’t need you —”

“You lost the last _three_ fights, isn’t that right? Or was it four.” He pulled a face. “Can’t quite recall.”

“— help from some scrawny little snot-nosed _Lannister —”_

“Women shouldn’t be in fights, anyway,” he said, as if it were established fact.

Brienne had several inches on him even at fourteen, and now she drew herself up straight. “If you say one more word I will — I‘ll — I’ll punch you myself.”

“Why bother? You’d only lose.”

She flushed red. “I hate you. I want you on the first ship going north from the island and then I never want to see you again.”

_No_ , said her father.

She had carefully washed and dressed and brushed out her hair, even letting the fluttery little maid braid it in some complex pattern. He liked her to be neat, so she was neat; he liked her in the blue gown so she wore that. And for all that ... “No?”

“Jaime is a man half-grown, and you are a half-grown child. Perhaps your feelings towards him will change as you grow older.” He was blandly pointed.

Her father, the tourney sword.

This wasn’t the time to confess that Jaime was the prettiest boy she had ever seen and admit that his smile did things to her stomach. “I do not have _feelings_ for him. This isn’t about _feelings_. He hit Aris in the face, and I told him to stop and he did it again. You don’t allow violence.”

“Lord Tywin would be displeased if we sent back his son in a cloud of shame. I have no wish to make an enemy in the north.”

She flopped into a chair. “Kings Landing is so far away. Almost a handspan on the map. And they never come here.”

“Your feet are dirty,” said her father.

They were. She drew them back under her skirts. “I did wash up before I came to see you.”

“You forgot behind your ears.”

“I did not!”

Lord Selwyn sighed. “You’re older every day. I don’t like it.”

“Taller, too. And uglier, father. Do you know what Aris said?”

He considered her. “You are — what, four and ten? Old enough to make some choices. I give you this one. Should I send this Lannister away?”

Yes. Oh, yes. “Please do it — tonight —”

“Sit down, child. Listen to everything before you declare a _yes_ or _no_. Tell me, should I pack him off and risk damaging our relationship with Lord Tywin — he was never a forgiving man.”

She held her tongue, as he’d bidden, and chewed on her lip.

“Or should I keep the little boy awhile yet? Allow him to teach my only daughter how to fight?”

Brienne stared at him. “That is not a fair choice.”

“They seldom are.”

She’d begged him for a fighting tutor for years and was denied at every turn. For it to be finally offered, for _Jaime Lannister_ to be the string attached ...

She thought of him in the practice yard — all golden and green-eyed and confidence, so horribly sure of himself. He’d never lost a fight, not to her knowledge. Having the benefit of a boxing-master since childhood did seem to have its advantages.

Boys had it so much easier. That stupid Lannister was probably in his room right now, laughing at her.

“Well?”

“I will allow him to stay,” said Brienne, gracious as a queen.

“I thought you might,” said her father, and gave Brienne the smile that he saved only for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aris” is one of my favorite characters from the Queen’s Thief series; he is a very decent man and does not deserve the character assassination here.
> 
> SORRY ARIS I LOVE YOU


	2. Jaime I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 28 July 2019.

Jaime was crying.

He’d gone to the maester, somewhat unwillingly, because his damn hand really hurt and it was swollen up now and if he’d broken it and it set wrong, if it affected his sword fighting, he would never forgive himself.

The maester of Tarth was unimpressed by famous names and rangy boys. He made vague scolding noises — which Jaime ignored — and did something that was very painful, but very fast. “Move the fingers for me, one at a time. Is there pain?”

“No.” It was a lie.

“Excellent. I will bandage it, and you will let it rest a few weeks—”

_“Weeks?”_

“... at which point we will re-evaluate.”

Jaime set his jaw. “I need to practice. _Train_. I don’t have weeks or more to give to sitting around, learning to jerk off with my left hand.”

The maester shrugged, clearly unimpressed by the rangy boy or his famous name. “I would say better to lose a month now, than have the loss of it later. But lads and asses have two rear ends, they do say.“

So Jaime took himself and his temper to his own room where he could muff his grief and rage in the pillow.

This was _her_ fault, that Brienne. If she hadn’t been promised to him, he could have ... what? Ignored it? Aris called her _ugly,_ said a man might as mount a hole in the road as on her body, for all the pleasure she’d give.

Jaime had stepped forward. _She is a lady, whatever she looks like. You’ll speak civilly of her._

_So sorry, my lord. I forgot that her great, big, sloppy cunt is promised to you—_

And Jaime hit him, and that was so satisfying that he hit him again. He reveled at the rage swelling in his gut.

It was easy to turn that on Brienne, to snap at her too.

He regretted that now — but he regret helping her even more.

He was in a stupid, exhausted sleep when someone knocked. He sat up and squinted, drawing the blankets around his bare waist. “Come.”

Brienne entered, saw him, and blushed red. “You could have the decency to be decently clothed.”

“You’ll be seeing more of me than this, in a few years,” said Jaime. “What are you doing here?”

She sat on the edge of the bed — there was nowhere else to sit. “I told my father to send you away.”

Jaime laughed aloud. “I’m to be shunned over a fistfight? You islanders really are backwards if you think that would even raise an eyebrow back at home.”

Her eyes were coolly blue, assessing. “Would your father like to have you home again?”

No, his father would not like it. His father would be furious and Jaime would be whipped.

So he smiled. “I’m a _Lannister_. This joke of a betrothal is not my only chance for marriage or land.” And he let the words end there, knowing she would hear what he did not say: _I have options, unlike you._

Brienne looked down at her hands. “You don’t want to marry me.”

“So what? Did I ever say different? You’d lie if you said you were eager to meet me in the sept. You probably lay awake of a night dreading the marriage bed.” His hand ached.

“Do you ... do you wish you hadn’t done it?”

“I surely do regret it. It was a terribly sloppy punch. The maester said I pushed out the bones, see where it’s swol—”

She rolled her eyes. “You‘re half a head taller than Aris and far better practiced. If you _couldn’t_ knock him to the ground, I’d be ashamed of you.”

“Aris is three stone heavier for one, and older than me too. I fought for your honor, my lady, _and I won_. And still you come here and tell me I am going back to my father in disgrace. Cold words.” He shook his head. “I do beg your pardon for barely meeting your expectations.”

She met his gaze. “You’re not going back to your father,” she said. “You’re staying here.”

Jaime stuttered.

Lord Selwyn was well-known for his position on violent acts; not quite a pacifist, he viewed scuffles and fistfights as dishonorable. _You train for the enemy,_ he’d said, _not to pummel your brothers._

Jaime did not consider the other boys — fosters and foundlings, all of them — to be his _brothers_. They would have forgiven Jaime the weight of his money and family name, if he was like them in the ways that mattered. But he was not. The others worked to be noticed by some lord who thought them worthy of a pitted sword and a suit of armor that wasn’t rusted quite beyond use.

While Jaime — Jaime worked at swords for the sheer joy of it. It was better than eating and better than the quick, sloppy fucking he’d done in town. This was what he was meant to do. Even when he was swallowing dirt and blood, covered in bruises and too tired to raise his arms to block one more stroke.

And the other boys saw it. So they said things like _Your betrothed is a stupid ugly cow,_ and _Need to pretend she’s a tavern-slut to get it up, Lannister?_

It wasn’t ever about Brienne.

So he’d punched Aris and he would do it again, and when Brienne said _You will stay here and teach me to fight, it is what my father wants,_ Jaime could not help smiling.

He bit it back. “Are you quite sure? I don’t want you to lose your good looks.”

She did not even blink. “Then you’ll have to train me well, won’t you.”


	3. Selwyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selwyn loves his daughter, mostly.
> 
> We return to your regularly scheduled angst and argument in subsequent chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 28 & 30 July 2019.
> 
> *
> 
> Jaime is close in age to Brienne, for purposes of “stuff that I need to handwave over to have this dumb AU make a bit of sense”; he comes to Tarth when he is eight and she is six.

Selwyn Tarth, Lord of Evenfell, father of several legitimate children and as many born to the wrong side of the blanket, sat alone and in silence.

The last war to reach Tarth had broke out the long, beautiful castle-windows with the blunt force of arrow and axes and men’s bodies; all that remained was one piece of stained glass, so small and high up against the roof that it scarcely caught the sun. It displayed a moon and three stars and the light it gave was blue, blue, blue.

The war had been long outside of living memory — a hundred years or more — and the windows had been replaced before he was born with plain leaded panes. Selwyn was not generally a man given to romantic flights of nonsense but he thought he could still see them, a little. He thought the room would have been filled with the color of the sea around his island, the color of his daughter’s eyes. 

This _agreement_ with the Lannisters had been struck when the children were barely out of toddling clothes. Selwyn met the little lord when he was seven or eight, and dutifully performed for childish approval: admired his scrawny muscles, agreed his twin sister was very pretty, and commented politely that the pregnant Joanna would certainly bear another son.

He watched Jaime privately throughout. The lad would grow to be determined, he thought. And bold. Selwyn smiled.

“He takes after his father,” said Tywin, who did not smile. “Your daughter will make him a good and obedient wife.”

Brienne had been born red-face and squalling, and had barely paused since in railing against the world’s injustice. Even then she had a stubborn chin. “She will, my lord. She is exceedingly obedient.”

Tywin said, “Jaime shall stay with you until this marriage is completed and consummated. His mother is too soft on him, and his sister too prefers to keep him playing at her toys and games. _You_ will not give him preferential treatment.”

That was true enough.

So Brienne was raised knowing she would marry Lannister when she reached an age, and from the first moment she laid eyes on him she had decided to be conspicuously, distantly, _desperately_ polite. She retreated behind good manners like it was a line of shields, keeping her personal opinion behind lock and key.

Selwyn thought it was a fine pass, all told — until Jaime filled her child’s mind with stories of grand deeds and courageous acts, and Brienne decided to become a knight.

 _No_ , said Selwyn.

 _Yes_ said Brienne, and she kept saying it. Nothing deterred her, neither whippings nor fistfights — he knew of three and suspected half-a-dozen more.

She would not stop practicing in the yards; she would not stop arguing that she was already as good as any man (“or at least any boy”) in Westeros. She begged or borrowed or outright stole tourney weapons and hid them under her bed, or behind tapestries, or wherever she could hide them without the septa finding out, and she fought alone when no one else agreed to work with her — he knew she did.

She would not stop being frustrating, maddening, perfect. She would not stop reminding him of her mother.

So he brushed his hands of Brienne and her aspirations and gave her over to the lad. Jaime would not be a gentle tutor. He had his own masters here — spies from his father — and he showed no mercy to those he thought capable of better work. 

The match might do well, he thought. All things considered. Likely the work would convince Brienne to give up this knight business on her own ... eventually. And if by some mad miracle she continued, at least she’d learn from a decent partner.

Brienne had plenty to say on the topic. Jaime was annoying, Jaime was loud, Jaime was arrogant and rude and stubborn and argumentative —

Hmm, said her father.

“— and he talks _all the time_. I asked him if he were actually _frightened_ of birdsong, for he surely couldn’t hear it over his chatter. He looked at me like I’d sprouted a new head, and he liked it better than the old one.”

“He does have a mouth on him.”

Brienne had blushed crimson at the mention of Jaime’s mouth.

So. Given all that, he was not very surprised to see Brienne sit down at the supper table, sporting a fine black eye.

What _did_ surprise him was that Jaime Lannister had one too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i judge churches based on the quality (and quantity!!) of their stained glass.


	4. Brienne II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 30 july.

Brienne blocked neatly, blocked poorly, and pushed back hard to slide the third stroke off her sword.

Jaime dropped his own weapon, gasping. “Yield,” he choked. “I yield.”

It wasn’t like him to give in. “What’s wrong? Is it your hand? Let me see.”

“Nothing, dammit. I yielded, you won, go away, you stupid tall wench —“

“It’s no fair fight against a cripple, Lannister. No, hold still! Or I’ll tell my father and then —“

He pulled himself free, hiding the injured hand in the loose jerkin they wore for padding. “Any time someone annoys you, all you have to do is say _my father_ and all your troubles disappear, is that it? Like he’s a god. Someone should teach you that there are some problems that even gods and fathers can’t fix.“

Brienne was looking at one. “You think I don’t know that?” She stepped forward and he stepped away. “I’m tall, and women are supposed to be tiny little things.” She hit him with the flat broad side of the heavy weapon. “I’m ugly, Jaime. Women need to be pretty, or what are they good for?” Another hit. “I’m marrying _you,_ I’ll spend my life bedding _you,_ bearing _you_ children, obeying _you —“_ His thigh this time. He bit down on a yell. 

“Does that hurt you, Jaime Lannister? Because it hurts me. Every day I wake up and have to see your stupid perfect face and remember that you’ll never —“

She caught herself, tacking about neat as any sailor in a storm. “You’re getting up now and we’re going to see the maester about that hand. And this time you’ll listen to what he says.”

_Three months,_ was what he said.

The lion sat silent.

His passivity frightened Brienne more than his roaring ever could. She nudged him. “Jaime, did you hear?”

“I heard.”

She looked at him and set her mouth and asked the maester to teach her to wrap up his hand properly.

“That is a delicate process, my lady. Not one suited to a young lady.”

Jaime shifted on his seat. “You’re more of a _lady_ than she is.”

Brienne ignored this. “I understand I am young, but Jaime is my _betrothed_. Surely this is my task, if it is anyone’s? I know you do not want to spend your valuable hours tending him every day. And it will be every day that he does something foolish. Even the gods can’t keep up a Lannister.”

Jaime turned to her and she expected him to say — what? — but he held his tongue.

Truly, the world was full of wonders.

And the maester (a wise man and not eager to argue with the impenetrably stupid more often than necessary) acceeded to her request.

So it fell to Brienne to make sure his bandages were correct and taut every single morning, and noon, and night — without proper wrapping, the bones would slide out of place again and do worse damage to the muscles and sinew. _You must rest,_ she told him again and again and again, whenever he complained about using his left hand for swords and cutting food and ... whatever else boys did.

And once she lost her temper.

She was helping Jaime undress. He snipped and spit at the male servants, who refused to work with him; only Brienne met stubborn wroth with her own stifled rage.

He stared at her. “It hurts.”

“It is your own fault that it hurts, and I swear that if you fuss and whine any more I will _cut it off._ You know I am trying to help.”

“I don’t _need_ you taking my clothes off like I’m some puling infant.”

She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _You’re acting like one._

“Beg pardon, my lady?” Muffled by his shirt, going above his head.

She pulled it off the whole way and refrained from the urge to smother him with it. Thank gods he could take off his own trousers and smallclothes. “You’re no infant.”

“Exactly. Thank you.”

“You’re a cripple.”

And she smiled at him.

His face went blank, grey. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her. “Out.”

“Jaime, wait. I —“

“No.” He pushed on her shoulders— using both hands — til she had to step back, not to hurt him more, and he kept pushing.

She was left in the hallway, listening as he slid home the bolt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this author is handwaving over the fight/sparring scenes because i’m going by what geeky friends do, also Shakespeare with his very very helpful stage directions (“they fight. HAMLET is wounded.”)
> 
> \- i know the writing is ... subpar. let’s politely ignore it.


	5. Jaime II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 31 july 2019.

During Jaime’s first month on Tarth, when he was barely nine years old, a man had come to be healed with a foot swollen three times past its normal size. An ewe had stepped on him during lambing, and the wound turned green and black, fetid.

They half-carried him to the maester — past the children eating together in the hall.

Jaime kept his head down. But he heard the long low moan traveling down the stone corridors, and he heard the man’s muffled screams as they took his leg at the hip.

Now, years later, he lay in bed and stared at his bandaged hand.

He hadn’t permitted himself to think about the reality — the _possibility_ , he thought — of injuring himself in some permanent way. And then Brienne pushed against his sword and Jaime felt something give, and ...

He wouldn’t forgive her for it. Not ever. Even if (when) he healed.

Predictably, Brienne expected him to show up the next morning to work on her sparring, or fistfighting, or correct his parts of speech, or something. It didn’t matter. Jaime didn’t care.

He didn’t care when she said his name, or when she pounded on the door, or when she went away and left him in silence.

She did it again the next day, and the next. And that was enough.

He went to Lord Selwyn and knocked and waited for admittance.

 _Slaves wait,_ his father said, in his mind. _Not Lannisters. Not my son._

“Come,” from within and when the boy entered, Selywn was standing to meet him as one would for an equal.

It twisted something in his chest that felt like unfairness. “My lord,” he said, “I would ask leave to return h — to return to Kings Landing.”

“Would you indeed,” said Selwyn. “And what reason would you give your father for breaking this betrothal?”

Jaime hadn’t thought he would need _reasons_. “Your lordship is most kind to foster me for these years, but now I am a man—”

“You are fifteen. Is that a man?”

“It is my right to choose a wife of my own.” He was proud of his voice: it did not break, even on _man_ or _wife_ or the traitorous _home_ that almost slipped out. His father would be pleased, perhaps — if anything could ever be done to please his father.

Less of a comfort was his height. He had grown lately, but Selwyn was taller and more broad, and Brienne was taller still.

He would not think of her.

Selwyn said: “And what will you say to Lord Tywin about why my daughter, whom he chose as your promised wife while you were still lisping and pissing your smalls, is unacceptable to you?”

Jaime did not speak.

So the lord returned to writing in a set of great ledgers, not bothering to give Jaime the dignity of attention. His pen scratched with every downstroke. “I assume you prefer another wench?”

“No, my lord.”

“Another lad?”

“No.”

“Are you — _incapable?_ Do we need a maester—“

“No!”

“This is going to be a long conversation, boy, if I must drag every syllable out of you with hooks.”

“It is not Brienne,” said Jaime.

And at that came the first glimmer of interest. “Is it not? You don’t find her too large — too brash — too unforgiving?”

“No, my lord.”

“Her interests do not bother you? The fighting, for example — how she wants to be a knight?”

Jaime shook his head, automatically, and realized he was telling the truth. He had no interest in marrying Brienne any more than he ever had, and most days it gave him a queer satisfaction to see her lose to him and fall hard in the dirt and wipe away tears of frustration and pain, — but he didn’t _hate_ her for any of that. She never lied and seldom complained, and she She threw her energy into practice like the weapons were real and her life at stake. 

_There are no men like me,_ he had thought before. Maybe there were no other women like her.

“I do not hate her. And I — I have no wish to dishonor Brienne, or myself, or our houses and families. I am prepared to return to Tarth whenever necessary and complete the marriage rites. I ask only your leave to journey north awhile. It has been ... far too long since I have seen my father and ssister. And my brother as well.”

 _Scratch, scratch_ went the pen on paper. “You would have done better to start with that.”

“Do I have your permission, then?”

“No. You do not.”

“My lord —“

“You do not have my leave, boy. If I wake to find you gone I will send a raven to reach your father and tell him all, long before a ship will set you off in Kings Landing or Lannisport — or Dorne — or the Wall — or wherever you might think to flee. I do not know what Lord Tywin will do, when you meet him again; I cannot say what I will do.

“You ask my permission, Jaime Lannister, and yet you think to call yourself a man? Children ask _permission_. A man does what he will. A wise man does what he thinks right.”

“Ser,” and this time Jaime’s voice did break. “I mean no disrespect.”

“I know that.” Those eyes assessed him; they were coldly colorless. A stormy day at sea. How could he look so much like Brienne and yet not at all? “I doubt your father would understand so well. Will he beat you if you arrive home to him unmarried, sea-salt in your hair?”

“He would whip me.”

“He’s done it before, I take it. Did he hold the reeds in his own hand?”

“They use a braided strip of leather, my lord. Gathered together hard for a handle.” Had they no proper whips on Tarth? Or did they not use them on children?

Selywn said, “I beat Brienne once, when she would not stay out of the practice yards. I thought her septa had too soft an arm.

“I was mistaken. Brienne’s will was stronger than any beating I would allow ... Tell me — was it for your bold tongue or the expression in your eyes that Tywin had you whipped?”

How did he know?

Tywin had been in a cold fury _. You’ll never make a king so long as you spent time trying to make others admire you, rather than fear you._

 _I don’t care to be a king,_ Jaime had said _: I’m going to grow up and be a knight in the Guard._

And he’d been on the floor, and then ser someone-or-other fetched a whip, and then memory went blank.

“It was for my — my _cleverness_ , he said.”

Selwyn made a sound that might have bloomed into a laugh, given time. “You may return to your rooms.” The scratchy pen resumed its work.

Jaime did not move.

“I said you are dismissed.”

 _Slaves knock_. So when the grey eyes lifted up from the paper —

“My lord Selwyn, I will do what I think right.”

Jaime put a hand to his heart and bowed, as one lord will do to another, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selwyn wasn’t knighted, far as I can tell.  
> Jaime slips into calling him “ser” as a less snooty form of respect than “my lord”. and it is a term that’s more meaningful to jaime specifically, since he (and brienne) were born to nobility; their knighthoods were earned.


	6. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> about a year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 31 july 2019.

The water in the stormglass fell, and the hounddogs began whining and would not be hushed, and her father walked around pressing a hand to his forehead, like something ached him behind his eyes. It could have been tiredness — yes — or her willful disregard for the tenets of womanhood.

Or it could have been Jaime Lannister, whose presence was enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge.

But the winds blew and blew, and the sailing men took down masts and lashed tight what could not be stowed, and the shepherds brought in the young sheep, and slay the old ones for mutton and rough wool if they could not sell them alive. They wore grim faces and oilcloth aprons and washed their hands in the quick rivers, kneeling in the mud, in the rain already falling. It was a pity and a shame: but there never was room within walls for all the animals and the people both.

Brienne had been told to stay inside, and when she said she could help, her father had shaken his head: _You’re too young for these things. You’re a child still. Next time, maybe._

And she shrank back grateful, hating herself for the gratitude. She could never sleep well during butchering time, and this was out of season ...

From her room with its single window, she watched outside as the rain came down in bands and the trees began to bend over, twisting. It was a wonder.

Even that grew tiresome. She wandered to the main hall to find something to eat — formal mealtimes were cancelled, and the benches were sparsely full of men eating quickly, leaving pools of dripping water where they sat.

She took bread and cheese and wine and fruit, apologizing, and returned the long way. The hallways, usually so full of light and chatter, were dark and empty, and rain beat hard.

Jaime’s door was shut, not that it mattered to her.

She took her feast inside her rooms and shut the door and the bolted it too, feeling foolish — but the storm brought a creeping sense of dread — she wanted to keep the shutters latched tight and also to open them every moment. _Is it here? Is it here?_

The winds moaned and the rain fell and Brienne, alone in darkness, at last fell asleep.

Silence woke her.

She sat up, muddled, and went to the shutters to open them on the world.

— the glass was plastered with leaves and fronds, and what she could see didn’t make any sense with what had been there before ... a yellow sky?

If this is a dream, she told herself, I am equal to it.

So she drew back the bolt and passed into the hallway again, stepping as carefully as though any noise would wake some sleeping beast — the place was that eerie and still.

 _Jaime,_ she thought. If Jaime is dead ...

She stood a long time outside his door, lacking the strength to open it. If he were dead, if he were unliving ...

And then it opened in front of her, and she screamed aloud — and covered her own mouth in a moment later, apologizing and scolding him in the same breath, dragging him bodily with her.

He looked sick. No more golden skin and laughing insolence; he’d gone grey when she yelled and did not still seem quite real and human even now, as she fed him wine and made him eat, too, and felt his forehead with her hand.

“Thank you, septa,” he said. It was more like a creak than his normal laugh.

“Have some of the cheese, too. Are you — you dislike storms?”

He gave her a quick glance — a flash of eyes — and said something that was drowned out by the storm, screaming and thrashing against the walls.

He scrambled up again, shaking. 

He couldn’t hear her — she couldn’t hear herself — so she only pushed him back down. _Sit_.

Tugged at his feet. _Lie down._

Stiff and slow with fear, he obeyed.

She lay down too, and covered them both with the blanket again.

This is improper, she thought.

Or was it? They were engaged. And they were clothed, more or less, at least in their sleeping garb. And normal things didn’t seem to matter much right at the moment. The noise surrounded them like a beating heart — pressure, release — pressure, release — or a long aching pain. There was nothing to be done but submit.

And Jaime was staring at her.

 _Brienne_ , his mouth said, though all she heard was wind, water. _I’m sorry._ And then something she didn’t understand.

What? The storm ...

He repeated it.

Brienne stared at his mouth. Shook her head. _Sorry_.

He said it again, reddening now, and still she could not understand — so she nodded.

And Jaime kissed her.

He did it slowly enough that she could have drawn away at any moment, and instead of making her feel better — more powerful or in control — she felt entirely helpless, as if she had no greater weapons than a shutter and a bolt against him.

But she lost the ability to fight. Her training disappeared and her irritation disappeared and there was nothing anymore, but the two of them in a bed alone, while the world screamed itself hoarse and thrashed against the stone walls, because it could not come in.

Jaime slid his thumb over her lips and said something in her ear — she couldn’t hear him, turned to ask _What_?

His eyes were shut.

She could kiss him again. He was beautiful and awful and dear and in her bed and she would be forced to wed him tomorrow if they were caught, and she should hate him — she _did_ hate him — but right then she didn’t care.

She touched his face. Kissed him — twice — against each closed eyelid.

He sighed, a motion felt rather than heard: and she realized he was asleep.

So Brienne shut her eyes, too.

At some point he curled around her sleeping form; at some point she took his hand, and twined together their fingers.

Once he kissed her again and she curved her head against his neck and he put her arms around her

— and she woke alone, in a cold bed, with the sky a perfect, cloudless blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am also skeered of storms.


	7. Brienne IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brienne is fourteen, jaime sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 29 july 2019.

It was a good day.

Brienne woke up feeling more clearheaded than she had done in ages, and it didn’t matter that her trousers were too short & had to be let down _again_ , and it didn’t matter that a mocking whistle came out from the stableyards when she crossed, and it didn’t matter that Jaime Lannister had disarmed her three times in a row the day before.

Well — maybe that one mattered a little.

Brienne had dropped her sword and rubbed her stinging hand and said the worst words she knew, while Jaime doubled over with laughter.

Now she scuffed at the dirt in the practice circle, waiting for him to finish his stupid pre-spar ritual of tossing the sword from hand to hand and testing its weight. “The sword’s no different from how it was yesterday, Lannister. Hurry it up.”

”You don’t know that,” he said, mild. “Perhaps this is one of the heavier ones.”

”You know it’s not. Stop bloody stalling.”

He looked up through his hair — it was too long, it was surely in his eyes, she wished he’d cut it or tie it back or simply dunk his big stupid head in the horse-trough, anything to dull that perfect Lannister gold — and he smiled. “I perform to my lady’s request.”

He won one, two, lost one, won another — and now he rested on a sidewall, drinking switchel.

She bent at the waist and let her arms hang down, resting the muscles. 

“Brienne,” said Jaime: and his voice was strange. “You’re bleeding.”

“What — where—”

“On your ... bottom.” He swallowed, staring at it. “And down your leg.”

“Fuck,” said the Maid of Tarth.

They went to one of the little tidepools on the southern part of the island and Brienne washed out the blood.

Her tunic was long enough for modesty and she had little enough modesty to begin with — so she and Jaime sat together and waited for her trousers to dry in the sun.

Jaime said, “Are you going to tell your father?” That she was flowered; that she was a woman.

That she could be married.

Brienne shook her head. “Not yet. Will you send a bird to yours?”

“No,” said Jaime. “I was not here, I never saw any of this happen. I’ll deny it to my dying day.”

He had the eyes of a cat, she thought, all green and waiting: and didn’t he look as lithe and graceful as one, too, beautifully golden in the sunlight while he refused to marry her ... But he‘d lost his customary smile; he looked sad. Why did he not smile at her? Was she so unimaginably awful?

It wasn’t fair for her to be so ugly and him to look like that; it wasn’t fair to make her want him. Not when he was being kind, too —

“We’re going to have to do it some day,” he said. “Marry, I mean. Although doing _that_ is part of the deal too, I suppose.”

“You don’t want to.”

Something twitched in his face. “About as much as you want to marry me.”

She was not going to ask if he had done _that_ already. She was _not_ going to ask. He sat there like a god carved in living flesh and she was uglier every day and she just knew the sun was darkening her freckles, and — “Have you been with a girl?”

— and realized it didn’t matter what he said, she couldn’t trust him to tell the truth and she didn’t care _anyway_ , she _didn’t_ —

“Yes,” he said.

He wasn’t looking her in the face.

Brienne found that she did care, a little. She picked at the hem of her tunic. “What was it like?”

He flushed. “It feels nice.”

“For the man.” 

“For a woman too, or something’s wrong. Brienne, I know we ... this isn’t what you want or I want. But you’re looking at me like I am going to eat you toes-first and screaming, and ...”

“It hurts. For the woman.”

“Are you afraid of pain?”

She was afraid of humiliation. She shook her head, _No_.

He was the one to look away now. “The act itself is ... I find it ... almost boring. I promise not to — to trouble you over it too often. Hopefully we won’t need to ... and truthfully, I — I enjoy — that is, I don’t —“ He ran his hands through his hair and swore. “This would be so much easier if you were some tavern wench. But you’re a damned lady, and ...”

Trust Jaime to remind her of that right when she had almost began to like him again. “I don’t want to be one anyway,” she mumbled into her chest.

“Then — then we’ll pretend you’re not. Not with me. And I’m not with you, either, alright? No lords and Lannisters and bowing and courtesy. Just Jaime and Brienne.”

“Huh.”

“Master swordsmen,” he said. “Best in the kingdoms. Strong men quiver in fear to see our banners. Children and puppies follow us, knowing we will protect their honor. It looks like a traveling circus.”

She couldn’t help but smile.

Jaime said: “Brienne. When the others talk about,” he took a deep breath, “about bedding a woman — they speak like they’ve been thirsty all their lives and finally got some water. But it isn’t like that. Sparring is just as good. Better.” He cleared his throat. “You knocked me down last week.”

“You were off-balance.”

“Yes, and you came back with a two-handed stroke that knocked me to the ground.”

“You were making it easy on me.”

“Why do you fight everything? I’m trying to _compliment_ you.”

“I don’t need that sort of compliment, Jaime Lannister. I don’t need your pity, or your tutoring, or your precious bedding. If I want a man’s cock I can get it myself.”

He recoiled like he’d been struck — head tilted back and narrowed eyes. “Beg pardon, my lady. I did not mean to imply that you had any lack of opportunity to be fucked, or that my cock would ever be sufficient for your needs.”

She bit her mouth.

“Such a strong, independant woman would certainly be insulted by the offer of company back to Evenfall. So I’ll leave you to it.” He stood, brushing sand off his legs — put his hand over his heart and made an exaggerated bow — and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “switchel” is old-timey gatorade, basically. sweeten to taste.  
> apparently it’s experiencing a resurgence in the mixed-drinks-for-hipsters world, because why not.
> 
> *
> 
> brienne’s “oh FUCK” moment here stolen entirely from holograms, who will either deny she wrote it better or forget she wrote it at all, even though both are true.


	8. Jaime III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 29 july 2019.

Jaime sat at supper across from his fiancée and weighed the options.

He should tell his father that Brienne had started her bleeding. He was honor- and duty-bound, really. She wouldn’t have any right to complain.

Better yet, he should tell her father. One look at her face and he knew she hadn’t breathed a word; she was slowly cutting a knife into her meat, eyes on him and teeth grinding. The threat was perfectly clear.

It was rude for her to treat him like this. Insulting, really. This whole engagement was an insult, he couldn’t see why his father had agreed to it.

For that matter, why had Lord Selwyn agreed? Tarth was a rural backwater, to be sure, but Selwyn was under no particular danger of invasion — the island’s main appeal was beauty, and you could not steal that and sell it. And he was visibly fond of his gawky, horse-faced, unmaidenly daughter.

The stubborn wench. Did she really think he would run to tattle on her, like a child? He’d be a fool to hurry this wedding.

And besides — Brienne would never forgive him.

So he smiled at his goodfather. “An interesting thing happened today, my lord.”

Brienne lifted her gaze from her plate. She was shaking her head almost inperceptively. Don’t, she mouthed.

“No need to be shy, my lady. Your father should know these things.” He saw her slouch down and moved his legs just in time; her devastating kick landed somewhat-less-painfully on his ankle. “Ah. Such modesty.”

“Please,” she said. She looked ready to cry.

“Duty compels me to be truthful. Lord Selwyn — for the first time today ... your daughter stole the sword out of my hands.”

“She is learning, then?”

Jaime said: “Her footwork is still a mess. And she’s weak in the arms — naturally. She is a woman.”

“Better a woman than a lion,” said Brienne, who did not have a grateful bone in her body.

The others were going into town, and Jaime was not invited.

He told himself it didn’t sting, not even a little. Hells, he wouldn’t go with them even if they had asked. Even if they _begged_. He could do better than putting a few coppers down for a loose-mouthed whore, couldn’t he?

Loose mouths brought to mind Brienne — she of the too-big lips and crooked teeth, plain face and luminous eyes.

She’d been sleepy and kind during the storm, kissing him back like it wasn’t charity.

And the next day, looking at him the next day like he was something she had stepped in crossing the stable yards. Same as ever.

He wanted her.

He didn’t like it.

He stared at the ceiling, resentful and hot. If he’d gone to town, he could be fucking someone right now, and forget about the way that ugly cow wife of his looked and felt and tasted, how she ...

At least his stupid hand was healed so he could jerk off properly again. 

He should write to his father. Tywin would be so pleased about all of this. _Brienne is ready to wed,_ he would say _._ _And my hand is better, so I can manage to pretend I want her._

Lies. He was already starting to feel the half-pleasant half-itch of desire that made his cock lift up.

Impossible to imagine Brienne submitting gently to a bedding. She’d scratch and claw like a wildcat even in her pleasure. Jaime would up to breakfast all scrapes and bruises, and his father would say ...

He should not be thinking of Tywin Lannister when he wanted to get off.

But he came forth unbidden, not in imagination but memory: and Jaime dropped his hand to his side.

Almost a decade later and the words still hurt. _What your swordmaster said is not my problem, Jaime. It is_ yours _. If it comes to my attention again, you will be unable to sit down to take a shit for a full week. Am I understood?_

Jaime was not yet nine years old, but he understood.

So at midnight he took a tourney weapon into the swordmaster’s rooms and beat him with the flat. 

The master resigned, and Jaime was whipped.

 _Are you satisfied with the results of your disobedience?_ Tywin had said.

Jaime smiled. _Yes, Father._ Each lash stroke opened skin from shoulders to arse, and he’d had five. He wouldn’t be able to walk easily for a month, and no doubt his father would have him on horseback the following day.

But the swordsmaster was gone.

 _I’ve learned my lesson,_ he said.

 _You have not,_ said Tywin, _but you will. I’m writing to Selywn today. You shall go to Tarth on the next suitable ship._

 _It’s time for you to grow up under someone else’s eye. Past time,_ he said. _Now get out of my sight._

And so Jaime came to Tarth and met Selwyn and Brienne, and realized — contrary to his hopes — that he had swapped one untenable situation for another. He was safe from being whipped for disobedience, it was true: but all the while, marriage hung over his head like a sword ready to fall.

It would have been easier if Brienne were pretty and vacant. Or ugly and foolish. Instead she was some uneasy imbalance of traits, all leg and stubbornness and skill, inextricably twined with her temper, her honesty, her mouth ... and those eyes.

 _Please,_ she’d said. Please don’t make me wed you yet. She looked like a fox running from hunters — running from him. Gods.

Suddenly Jaime had no urge for any release but sleep.


	9. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i posted yesterday when i was half-asleep and put up the chapters out of order. SORRY ack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 29 July, 2019.

_Ser, I am in your debt._

That wasn’t so much to say, was it? So why was her palm sweating?

She’d expected Jaime to tell — someone — that she had begun her monthly bleed. She didn’t dwell much on who he might have told, all the possibilities were awful in different ways, and every single one ended with them speaking vows in front of the septon.

 _Ser,_ she told his door. _My lord. I thank you._

Debt was bad enough — being grateful to a Lannister was a trial — but it was far worse that she didn’t know what to do in return. He didn’t care much about posessions, probably because whatever he wanted he could buy in half a moment, and she had nothing to give him that ... nothing he would want.

She knocked again.

”Come in,” he said: and she did.

Jaime reacted astonishingly fast, sitting up and dragging the blankets up to pool in his lap. “What — why are you here?”

She made a face. “Why are you always half-naked when I see you?”

“I’m in my own damn room and I was trying to — to sleep, and —“

“You told me to come in!”

“That,” said Jaime, “was not exactly what I said.” He rubbed his face, like he could scrub down his blown-out pupils and the high spot of color in his cheeks; then he took a very deep breath and let it out. His shoulders were starting to relax. “Alright. Since you are here, ...”

“I wanted to thank you.” Gingerly she sat on the edge of the bed.

“For what?”

“For ... for not telling anyone what happened, the other day. I’m in your debt.”

“No. No, don’t. It’s not — it isn’t like that. It’s your secret, not mine, and ...”

“Will you shut up and let me thank you?”

He resolutely closed his mouth and gestured broadly. Go on.

“No one has done that for me before. Kept a secret for me, I mean, only because I wanted them to do it. It was kind of you. And I ... I want to thank you.”

“You’ve thanked me.” He was looking tense again. “You can leave.”

“Must you be rude? Why are you sitting like that?”

“Like what?”

“All hunched, and your hand below the covers.”

He shut his eyes. “Brienne.”

And then she understood, and felt heat crawl down her face and chest. “I’ll — I’ll go.”

“Didn’t you want to pay that debt?”

“I’m not — that is, we’re not married — it isn’t honorable —“

“Fuck your honor,” said Jaime: and kissed her.

Brienne had been kissed before, of course she had, but those were shy half-mocking kisses given by boys, and mostly before she had grown taller than them.

There was nothing shy in this.

He kissed her like he’d been wanting to do it a long time, like he had thought of it so often he had to go deeper and deeper to find the same thrill.

And Brienne kissed him back. Slow at first, bumping her nose, but he knotted his hand in her hair and held her steady and she was wanting him even more and he slipped his hand down to cup her chin and

— the other hand was still under the blankets.

She broke away, standing as far away as the closet-like room allowed.

Jaime was breathing hard; a swallow moved down the long line of his throat.

“I’ll — I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“ _Brienne_ ,” he said. He sounded strangled.

She fled.


	10. Selwyn II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 04 August 2019.

“Brienne. Please sit.”

She sat, looking uncomfortable. And no wonder: she wore a pink dress that was both too broad across the chest and too short in the leg, bunching and pulling beneath her arms. Some gift, he remembered vaguely.

Probably it was the only feminine thing she had; probably she’d worn it to please him.

“Is something wrong?” she said.

“Nothing at all,” said Selwyn, but that did not seem to reassure her.

Good. She needed to be mistrustful of the world.

All the same ... “We had a bird from lord Tywin. He asks after the state of your engagement.”

The message was not in Tywin’s hand but seemed to be dictated by him all the same; it had his usual terse directness. _Please inform me as to the flowering of your daughter. And the obedience and so forth of my son. It has been some time since our last correspondence._

Her face went pale. “And what do you tell him?”

“What _should_ I say, Brienne? That you’ve spent a year and more with a woman’s blood, and I haven’t told him?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again.

Selwyn said: “Should I tell him you kiss Jaime after your sparring work? Should I say he’s in your rooms at night?”

She was red-faced now, and she stammered. “We never ... he didn’t ...”

“I believe you. But you could have told me. About your flowering, and other things. I hope I have never betrayed your confidence.”

Brienne didn’t reply.

Selwyn waited.

At last she said: “I don’t want you to tell lord Tywin any of that.”

“Tell me the truth, and I will tell you what I can do at this point.”

“I never lie to you.”

“You have not laid with him?”

For a girl who never lied, she was reluctant to answer.

“Brienne,” said Selwyn.

“No.”

“A servant said —“

“He was in my room. Once. That is true. I’ve been in his. And we ... we did not.”

“You know what happens?”

She turned darker red. “I know. And Jaime — he knows.”

Selwyn had no trouble fitting in several options in that pause. He was not blind to the boys spending time in the town, in company of women; he was certain the Lannister boy had gone along with the other lads at least once. “Alright. This is what I can do: I can write Tywin and tell him you are ready to marry.”

He watched.

Brienne had no expression.

“Or I can write him and say you’ve not bled, you have no symptoms of it, and ... let him do as he will do.”

She gulped. “What did _Jaime_ say, when you asked him?”

It was a good guess and an accurate one. Selwyn smiled. “Much as you said. He knew nothing, has seen nothing, has done nothing. By the lad’s reckoning you wouldn’t believe he had been close enough to cross swords with you, let alone crawl into your bed.”

He’d admitted to bedding other women, and embellished his account past the point of likelihood — he had a lot to learn about telling a lie — but on the topic of Brienne, Jaime was a flat grey wall. No, he’d never seen or heard of her flowering, not that he knew anything much of women’s troubles. No, he’d never laid a hand on her in that way. No, he never heard of anyone else doing it, and he would be happy to beat the hells out of anyone who tried to do it.

That last one, Selwyn believed. The boy’s gaze was carefully kept down whenever he lied about Brienne and resolutely forward when he lied about his own sexual experience — fine. Not all men could make a living cheating at cards.

Ask about someone else touching — loving — _wanting_ Brienne, though, and a high spot of color came into hid cheeks and his eyes lit like a candle had been placed behind them. _No_ , he’d said. _No one else has been near her. I would make them regret it._

Selwyn didn’t ask more. He’d gotten what he wanted. He said to Brienne: “Will you have me lie, daughter? Or will you marry the boy?”

She hesitated.

“You might wait longer and fare worse, my girl. Jaime is a good lad — whatever his faults — and he seems likely to remain that way.”

She was looking at her hands. “Must I marry?”

How many times had she asked him this? and always his reply was the same. “You may do whatever you like. You are nearing sixteen, you are a woman grown, or almost. I will not force you to a sept — not now or ever. It is your choice.

“But the consequences of your choices are your own, too. And I will not always be here to help ease your way.” He paused, and said again, “Lannister is a decent man.”

“He has an awful temper. And he’s reckless. And his face — he’s so — I wouldn’t want a husband that other women _look at,_ you know?”

“Do I tell Tywin that you will, or that you will not?”

“Tell him — tell him ...” She swallowed. “Tell him what you know. That I have not bled, I am not ready for marriage.”

“He might break it off.”

“Then it will be his choice,” said the Maid. “Not mine.”

She nodded at her father and left.

And Selwyn wrote the necessary missive, with his heart full of a dark grief he would not name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shame on you, Brienne!
> 
> meanwhile, Jaime can’t quite say “I am desperate to shag your ugly daughter” but i think it comes through pretty clear


	11. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaime is 18, brienne 16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 31 July - 1 August 2019.

“Brienne?”

No answer. Only her sillhouette against the sky, backlit by a million stars.

“Wait — it’s me — for gods’ sake, be careful. That ledge is narrow and it’s a damned long way, and you’re a lot of wench, you’ll hit bottom quick—“

“If you’re here to mock me, I’ll leave.”

“No. Brienne, stay. I didn’t mean that. Stay.” He’d sat down next to her and put a hand on her knee, imploring, and she only stared at it. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

“Needing a subject for more jests and japes, like you did at supper? Oh, don’t look a wounded innocent. I heard you.”

“I didn’t ...”

“You didn’t intend for me to hear, you mean? How generous. But it’s no great trick to mock a woman for being ugly.”

She wasn’t ugly tonight. Her eyes reflected the starlight, and they seemed to fill her face. He couldn’t look away. “I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to tell you that I had a dream. Something odd.”

“What do you mean?” She sounded wary — as well she might.

“I dreamt of a terrible storm that smashed the buildings to pieces, and tore up the trees, and screamed against the stone walls for a night and a day. I was afraid — I’ve never liked storms — and I came to find someone. A friend. I wanted comfort, maybe. I don’t know.”

Brienne wet her lips.

“A wench took me into her bed and her arms, and she kissed me so sweet I forgot myself and the wind and everything but that I wanted more ...”

“If you’re saying this is about me, I don’t remember any of it.”

“Of course you don’t. Why would you remember the way you said my name as you took off my shirt and kissed over my entire—“

She hopped off the ledge, sounding annoyed. “I absolutely did not. For the first thing, you kissed me.”

She was so easy to bother. Jaime smiled. “Oh, is that how it went? I thought you were asleep.”

“Why are you here? You know I wanted to be alone.”

“Maybe I wanted to apologize.” He had grown again, he was the same height as she, and it was strange to look her in the eye without tilting his head. Strange to think she was there — just there — if he only leaned forward a little bit — or if she did. “Maybe I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been sorry in your life,” said Brienne. “No matter how wicked you are.” Her voice caught; it sounded like sadness. For him? or because of him?

“I need to do more wickedness, then,” he said. “And you can teach me how wrong I am.” He leaned in; his mouth caught hers; his arm reached around her waist. “I’m a very slow learner, Brienne.”

She was breathing light and fast, returning his kisses even as she protested. “I am not your moral compass.”

Thank gods, he thought, because a compass only points true, it could not be argued, and he wanted her to find him instead, mindless as the needle seeks the north. Wherever he was, she would follow — where she went, he would go.

“Brienne.” Because she was kissing him deeper now and his body was responding and was this what they talked about, the madness of love? Wanting, he thought, this is not love, it’s only desire.

He did not love her. He only desired to remove her clothes quickly and cover her with his own body and make her gasp in pleasure. He could do it, she wanted him to do it, her breasts were taut on his hand and she rocked her hips against him, and  
no one would see them here on the top of the world, would they? Only the sky.

He pushed his hardness against her — couldn’t help it — and she ran her hands down his waist, not moving away. “Jaime.”

“Tell me to stop,” he said against her shoulder, and bit down lightly. She smelled so good and she tasted better and she was making little noises and —

Brienne said, breathy, “I don’t want you to stop.”

Yes, well.

He caught her hands where they were fumbling to find his skin, and twined his fingers in hers. Even that make his cock ache: but at least he was away from the smell of her neck, the taste of her skin ... “Tell me, O compass — I supposed to be sorry for this, too?”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled at him. “Jaime. You know this doesn’t make up for anything you said tonight.”

“Oh,” he said, “should I try again?”

“Not unless you want to be standing up in a sept tomorrow morning. Why are you cruel to me? Why do you say things like —“

“I know what I said.”

“Do you really think those things? About me being — too tall to bed, too ugly, too masculine ...“

He choked out a laugh. “Did you really ask me that?”

“Why would you say it if you don’t think it? That’s — that’s worse than you coming here in the dark and ... and kissing me like this. Making me ...”

He let go. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

She was far enough away now that he could see her edges again: shoulders and elbows, the dull curve to her nose and forehead, the rough outline of her hair. “Did you really dream about you?”

He had orgasmed, dreaming of her, and it wasn’t half as good as this wretched unfinished desire. Her face half-visible against the darkness. “No,” he said. “Just another lie.” And he smiled again. “Goodnight, my lady.”


	12. Brienne

She was deep in the middle of a very nice bout of kissing, and so what if it _was_ Tourmond pushing her against the wall? His hands were broad and warm and he was smart enough to leave her tunic alone, and the way he pressed against her was —

— it was a little more than she wanted, actually.

It didn’t matter. They weren’t going to do anything in the hallway that would get her more than a lecture, and oh that was nice, him kissing her neck right there, yes —

Tourmond jerked back, shouting, as someone hit him in the jaw.

Boys were so stupid. 

They were yelling and she yelled too, until Tourmond pulled away, spit on the floor — they all understood that was directed at Jaime — and left.

Jaime was breathing hard, and his precious hair looked _disheveled_. Shame Tourmond hadn’t done the same to his face. “Brienne — are you alright? He was hurting you —“

“He was _kissing_ me, you addled parasite. I didn’t need your help.”

“I heard you. I heard you down the hall.” He stared at her. “ _Everyone_ heard you. _Oh, Tourmond!”_

“If I was making a noise it was not from displeasure.”

Jaime, predictably, admitted no dissent. “Gods, it’s disgusting. That slimy ginger shit, slobbering on you. Does he even come up to your neck?”

That was enough — that was too much — so Brienne hit him. Right from the shoulder, as he’d taught her, with the full force of her body behind it.

Neither one of them had prepared for it. Jaime went down and Brienne fell on top of him.

She scrambled up a moment later and so did Jaime, covering his face and swearing at her. Their voices overlapped and echoed.

“— as though —“

“— letting him—“

“— what you don’t want —“

“— my _wife!”_

She stopped at that. “Your wife? I am your wife? Funny. I don’t remember standing up in a sept with you.”

“You know what I mean. Seven fucking hells, woman! You have a damn hard arm on you.”

“You have _no right_ to be posessive. _None_.”

“Don’t I? Where is your precious honor now, lady Brienne? I catch you rubbing against this _Giantsbane_ like you’re beyond the Wall and he’s your last hope of fire, and _I_ am the one who is breaking bargains?”

“You said it yourself. This is an arrangement of convenience. It has nothing to do with — with affection. And I know full well you’ve gone into town to see other women—”

“I never said —“

“— since the day you came to Tarth.” Her voice was shaking: she cleared her throat. “Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

“No.”

She laughed. “Liar.”

“I mean — Yes, but — but not since I — since —“

“Since _what_ , Lannister?”

And he kissed her.

She pushed him away and he caught her up again. “Let me.”

“I don’t want you to!”

“Please,” said Jaime. His eyelid was drooping and swollen, the skin a vibrant, darkening red from cheekbone to ear. “I want to do it. I’m better than he is. I’m better than everyone —“

She pushed him again, harder this time, and he stepped back to keep balance.

She said: “I might have to marry you, whenever they make us. I don’t have to _enjoy_ you. And I plan to enjoy myself in the meantime.”

His eyes — those cat eyes — were huge, and his mouth was a straight line. “Don’t say things like that.”

“You don’t _own_ me, you don’t _control_ me, and you’re not going to _win_ me. Is that clear to your curly little brain?”

“No,” said Jaime. “It’s not clear. Meaning, I disagree. Meaning You’re wrong. You are my wife, you are mine, and if you so much as look at another man, I’ll ...”

“I’ve done a lot more than _look_ ,” said Brienne.

Jaime stepped forward. There was nothing unprepared in his posture now.

Brienne felt her fingers twitch. The urge to beat him bloody —

— would get her nothing but trouble. So she only controlled her breathing and lifted her eyes. “Fuck off, Jaime Lannister. Don’t ever touch me again.”

Selwyn looked at his bruised, furious goodson to his bright-eyed, furious daughter, and decided not to ask.

  
Late in bed that night, after she’d cried out her anger into the pillow, all that was left was the feeling of arms around her and a mouth against hers.

 _Jaime_ , thought Brienne.

He was tall and blond and awful and he kissed like wine, like how the sun shone off the waves, like the feeling of finally winning a new skill. _I want this,_ he’d said, and slipped his hand around her waist, on her skin.

And she let him.

No, it was than that: she’d pulled him nearer and she liked the way he was hard on her, she liked how his skin went warm and his kisses turned slow, deliberate, heavy. Jaime.

If he were in her bed right now she wouldn’t push him away.

He had made up this foolish game about their sparring, that if he won he got to kiss her —

 _And if I win?_ she’d said.

He smiled. _Then you get to kiss me._

Something about that didn’t seem fair, but all her thinking shut down and she only could give a foolish sort of nod, and by the time she took her next breath — it seemed — he was pushing her against the wall where no one would see, it was hidden by the roof and he could say things like —

She couldn’t remember if she had locked the door and it didn’t seem worthwhile to check. _Jaime_. He could come in, he wouldn’t even knock, and he’d climb on her and push her legs apart and

— and there her imagination faltered, and he wasn’t here, was he? Not to take control or to laugh at her either.

Her own hand could fit between her legs, couldn’t it, as well as his would? and he was kissing her again, stroking her. _I dreamed of you,_ he said.

 _I dreamt of this. You, beneath me. Around me_ , he said: and her hips jerked.

 _Let me touch you_ , she said, but her imagination failed there too, she could only fill it in with memory of the worm-things the boys had and now, what Jaime had pushed against her while he made that soft noise, beautiful boy who’d kissed down her neck and said lies, lies —

 _Tourmond_ , she tried to say: but the eyes watching her were always green, and the hair between her fingers changed again and again to gold.

She cried out, biting her mouth to muffle the sound.

 _You’re holding back_ , said Jaime in her ear: but when she turned with a shiver and a gasp, he was nowhere to be seen.


	13. Brienne & Jaime I

Morning was the best time. The air was clean with none of its yesterday’s heat lingering in it, and no one much was around to notice Brienne as she slipped to the kitchen and then out again, through the stables to admire the horses and greet the master, finally to the practice yard —

where Jaime was waiting for her.

Brienne stopped.

Started forward again.

She _wouldn’t_ talk to him about anything personal, she _wouldn’t_ be upset, she wouldn’t _care_ that he made her burn and ache and whimper.

He certainly didn’t care.

She cleared her throat. “Stances?”

“I was upset last night.”

“I know. Take your position, Lannister.”

“I’m trying to apologize!”

“Yes,” said Brienne, through her teeth. “And I am trying to ignore it because if I say anything it’s going to be impolite, and —“

“And you’re afraid of being rude?“

“Take your position and fight me, and I will defeat you like a — like a knight.”

Jaime said: “I won’t.” He dropped the sword and stood, unguarded, hands outstretched and palm up. “I’m unhappy, and I took it out on you, and I’m sorry.”

“Pick up your weapon, ser.”

“No. You need to listen.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I need you to _listen_ to me. I didn’t tell your father or mine about your blood, even when he asked me outright, Brienne. I lied.”

He offered it up as if it were some boon, when really he was trying to get away. She rolled her eyes. “Generous of you. Now if you’ll —“

“What do you want?” he said — yelled, really. “You don’t want this marriage to happen and I help you stop it awhile and then you act like, like ...”

“What do you know of what I want?”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”  
  
He stepped in her space. “Tell me, Tarth.”

“None of your business, _Lannister_.”

“Do you _want_ to marry me? Or do you want me to cut it off.”

“Your father ...”

“Fuck him. I’m talking about you, Brienne. You kiss me back and you get angry when I insult you —“

“I kissed Tourmond, too. Don’t forget. And anyone would be mad when they’re being insulted, that doesn’t prove—“

“You’re angry when _I_ do it,” he said. “You don’t mind when anyone else calls you names. You don’t care about them, do you?” He traced her mouth, along her jaw and neck and downwards, so his hand held the swell of her breast. Even through her padded tunic, her skin responded.

“Don’t.” It came out hoarse.

He moved away his hand and she thought he’d smile at her — that infuriating grin like he’d won a point in the old invisible tally between them, composed of sparring and bon mots. In some dark way she couldn’t articulate, their kissing was a fight too: but whether she had won or not, she couldn’t ever tell.

He wasn’t smirking at all. He didn’t even look burning and desperate. He seemed totally calm. “Come to bed with me.”

“Jaime, I —“

“No, or Yes?”

“This has nothing to do with marriage.”

He laughed. “What do you think marriage is?”

“It’s not this!”

Jaime swallowed down an argument, and Brienne saw another tally-mark appear by her name. “Fine. So — so we won’t marry. Just come with me. We’ll go to your room or mine or do it here up against the wall, I don’t care anymore. Tell me _yes_ and we’ll go.”

“No.”

Something horrible happened on his face; he shut his eyes.

Brienne escaped.

*

He was half-drunk and creeping home from a night in town when he passed her door and heard the soft, hitching sound of muffled tears.

“Brienne?” he said, and when the noise stopped, he said: “I’m coming inside.”

“Don’t you dare, Jaime Lannister,” she said, perfectly audible.

Jaime shook his head, carefully, so as not to dislodge the wibbly feeling. “Sorry, I just can’t understand you through the door.” And he went in.

She was sitting on the chair next to the window, wearing a shift and a blanket and a resentful expression. A pile of handkerchiefs was on the floor. “I told you to leave me alone.”

“Have you been crying?”

“Go away.”

“Have you been crying _all night?“_ because her face was swollen, and more tears slipped down even as she glared at him.

She sniffed. “You smell like rotting beer.”

“No surprise there, since I spent the night in an ale-house. Brienne, unfurl those ridiculous legs of yours and come to bed. You need to rest.”

She stiffened: and Jaime drew back in surprise. “What?”

“I will not be — bedded.”

“Did you think I was going to?” he said, slow and stupid with drink: and then her story came out.

“The others, the boys ...”

They’d put together some sort of game about her maidenhood, it seemed: a bet of ever-increasing stakes, and all the risk was on the one who didn’t know she was playing.

“Tourmond?”

She cried harder.

“I’ll kill him.”

“You will n-not. You will not do anything. _Promise me._ Or your father will s-send you home, and —“

 _Would that matter to you?_ he wanted to say _, and Stop crying and let me kiss you,_ because her mouth was full and red and perfect, but no: she put her face against his shoulder and let him hold her and cried, cried, all sorts of ridiculous nonsense about being unloveably ugly and how humiliating it all was, to be marrying a stranger because no one else would ever want her —

A stranger, huh. “Surely I’m attractive enough for the both of us,” he said, trying to make her smile.

She cried harder, and her words didn’t make sense anymore as words. It was only grief. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying. “I hate that I’m like this. I’m sorry.”

She hated — what? That she was crying or that she was ugly? He rubbed her back. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“N-not saying them doesn’t help. Jaime.” And she pulled away. “Tell me you won’t say anything. Or do anything.”

He wouldn’t promise that — he _wouldn’t_. He ground his teeth.

“Jaime. Please. I’ll do anything.”

Kiss me, he thought. Let me come in the covers with you and put an end to these competitions entirely.

He sighed. “I don’t want anything. Just — just stop crying. Don’t look so heartbroken. They’re little shits, and little shits aren’t worth your tears.”

Her chin was shaking, but her eyes were clear. “You promise?”

It wasn’t clear what she meant — that the boys were stupid pieces of trash, unworthy of her? That he wouldn’t beat them all into a pulp, and be sent away?

“I promise,” he said.


	14. Raven I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 09 August 2019.

High and fast the raven flew, moving southward.

The ocean wind blew hard, and the scroll tied on its leg was a hinderance. The birds were bred and controlled by men for generations, they were not tamed. _Cats and ravens go their own paths,_ said the smallfolk, and the great big lords forgot that to their peril.

Jaime, a great big cat, slept uneasily beneath his blankets and furs. He was caught up in foul dreams mixed together from memory and fear. Beatings were there and so was silence, and Brienne’s cold scorn.

Brienne had not slept at all. The night before Jaime had said a few kind words and given her a look she couldn’t interpret, and she’d thought he would kiss her — hoped he would do it — but no; he only wiped a tear off her cheek and _looked_ at her and left.

Her window overlooked the mews, and she watched the raven come in low, flapping tired wings.

A message.

Ravens weren’t native to Tarth and they did not seem to enjoy the climate, disliking the sun and the wind and the company of the raccous, stilt-legged water birds. This one would rest a while, eat a few lizards, and return home to ... wherever.

Kings Landing, probably. Who else but Tywin Lannister sent messages to her father?

 _The Lannisters think they are the center of the world,_ her father said once. _Even their maps are drawn that way: everything radiates outward from them_. He smiled. _I see no reason to dissuade them of it._

 _It’s rude,_ said Brienne. _The world is a circle — a sphere. No one’s the middle of a sphere._

_Arrogance can be useful, my girl._

If she were Tywin, what would she write for?

Jaime. Of course it would be Jaime. It was always him. Calling him home, maybe. Or telling him to hurry up and marry the big ugly wench already. _Stalling won’t improve her looks._

And she would have to leave with him, leave her home and go North, where the people had strange accents and the land and the wind and even the sunlight was different.

When Jaime came to Tarth as a child he had been vocally shocked by the differences between what he’d left and where he was. Brienne was not very interested in stories of “how we do it back home”, mostly because Jaime went out of his way to show up the islanders as backwards bumpkins, scarcely able to feed and clothe and wash themselves.

Although — she smiled at the memory — he had been obsessed with the tiny, ridiculous lizards. It took a full week of effort to catch one of them, and then it latched on to his nose with furious tenacity and refused to be dislodged. Jaime had yelled and tried to pull it off, the lizard emptied its bowels down his shirt before fleeing the scene, and Brienne had screamed with laughter.

She hadn’t hated him then. Not really. She resented him, she thought he was rude and annoying and arrogant and — and a _Lannister_ through and through. He’d put himself in the center of a map, she thought, and expect the world to rearrange itself around him.

It was terrible behavior. She still believed that. _Impossible_ behavior.

But somewhere along the way, she found herself taking the longer path around Evenfall, so she could go by his room. She made excuses to speak with him. She worked harder so he’d look at her with that curious mix of ... what? Pride? Admiration? Neither of those, but something like it.

And every time he kissed her, all she could think was: _He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want_ me _._

Oh, he wanted to fuck her, she could tell that — she literally felt it, felt him ... 

_Come to bed with me,_ he’d said.

But fucking wasn’t marriage. He _wanted_ her maybe, but he didn’t want _her_.

What made a good husband? she asked the bare, birdless sky. Do I even _want_ Jaime?

It didn’t matter, did it? They would be married, will she or nil she. One day soon she’d say words to him and they would go into a single room together and shut the door, and Jaime would ...

Brienne shut her eyes.

She wanted that part of things.

He made her mouth go dry and her wits stumble and if she drew a map of her world, he’d be in the center and the corners and all over —

— and it would be _useless_. No one could find their way when every direction lead to Jaime.

Wretched boy. He made her hot and cold and angry, and there was nothing in the songs about love feeling this way.

This wasn’t love.

Brienne rubbed a traitorous tear off her cheek and wished she’d shot that damned raven out of the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ravens are omnivores (they’ll eat what they got, including carrion) but they reaaaally prefer fresh meat
> 
> \- mews are for hunting birds (falcons) and ravens probably wouldn’t be kept there, would they? someone page GRRM to the courtesy phone
> 
> \- i am currently on “Tarth” and there are tiny lizards everywhere and I LOVE THEM SO MUCH. i would be Honored and Blessed if one bit my nose and shit all over my tunic


	15. Raven II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 10 August 2019.

Selwyn called them in to his inner room, after the morning spar.

Brienne had removed her padded jerkin but was glowing with sweat and smelling ... unladylike. Gingerly, Jaime sat next to her: he was well aware of his own accumulation of dirt and sweat and stink.

They didn’t look at each other.

“I had a message,” said Selwyn. “From Tywin Lannister.”

Jaime kicked Brienne in the leg, gently.

Brienne kicked back, not gently, and Jaime swore.

“What does it say?” said Brienne.

“I thought it best to tell you together.”

“Best for whom?” said Jaime. He was staring at Brienne. “She doesn’t need to hear this.”

She hissed at him. “What do you know?”

“I know my father. Lord Selwyn,” he said. “Whatever he wrote you, I ...”

“You won’t get rid of me like this,” Brienne told Jaime. “I deserve to hear just as much as you do.”

“Hells, woman! Are you deaf or only stupid?”

“Jaime, please be quiet for a time. Brienne — you, as well.”

“Father, he said—“

“I heard him,” said Selwyn, while Jaime grit his teeth and stared at the coiled scroll lying on the long table, wondering how quickly he could take it and run. Probably he wouldn’t get anywhere at all before Brienne tackled him.

And her father had already read it, so.

“I will spare you the words,” said Selwyn. “Suffice to say, that Lord Tywin thinks to end your betrothal.”

Jaime felt Brienne look at him; he kept his face turned blankly forward. This was not entirely unexpected. “There are some things of which my father is not necessarily aware,” he began.

“I am not finished. He offers to free you, my daughter, from the burden of an unwanted engagement. And for you, Jaime. He found you a more suitable partner.”

Jaime licked his mouth.

Brienne said: “I don’t understand.”

Jaime thought she did.

“Father? What else did he write?”

“That’s all,” said Selwyn. “Young Lannister, you wanted to speak?”

Jaime shook his head. No. He had nothing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teeny tiny chapter, but it really doesn’t fit anywhere else.


	16. Brienne VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written with an earache.

When Jaime knocked on her door that evening, Brienne was not especially surprised. She opened the door a crack, meaning to tell him to leave -- tonight she didn't want to see him or anyone -- but he pushed in, and pushed past her, and rolled his eyes when she began to argue. His expression -- grimly resolute, and bright spots of color on his cheeks -- was no comfort. He often looked that way at her recently. Like she was a chore to be completed, before he could have fun.

Fine. She'd let him tell her off and then he'd go away, and she could be alone again. 

She shut the door. "What is it?"

He swallowed; he looked away. “Brienne, I ..."

"What, no _wench?_ You're feeling generous tonight."

"Wench," he said: and didn't smile. "I've been thinking, and ... and ..."

A horrible feeling climbed up her throat. She said, forestalling: "You don't have to apologize for wanting out. Or for wanting someone else. Whomever this girl is, I'm sure that she's ... she's better than me. It's fine. And your father, I'm sure he, I'm sure that he has better options for you than he had when we were betrothed. It's ... I'm not angry." She wasn't. All the anger had drained away, leaving a strange, lethargic emptiness. She was so very tired. "It's all right," she said again. 

Jaime said: "I want you to marry me."

Brienne looked at him, saw he was serious, and shut her eyes.

It was so like him to show up when everything was over, and tell her to fight more.

She’d given up. She was _done_. He was free and she was free and she was fine with it, she was over him, and now he came and said ...

Impossible. He was impossible. And the urge to injure him -- hopefully in some way to cause permanent damage -- was so strong that she thought if she moved at all, it would be to knock him to the ground. 

She counted to ten, found she still wanted to strangle him, and kept counting. 

At _seventeen_ she managed to say “That seems a bit out of the frying pan and into the fire, Jaime.”

“No," and he ran a hand through his hair, looking exasperated: how dare she not recognize the logic of his plan? "No. It's not at all the same. This girl — I’ve never met her, but I don’t _need_ to meet her. I know what she'll be like -- I know my _father_. If _he_ thinks it’s a good match, I won’t like it at all.”

Brienne waited for him to realize he’d insulted her, and apologize. It did not appear to be forthcoming.

She chewed her mouth. “You don’t seem to hate _me_ very much anymore. Maybe this new fiance would be the same.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’m through living according to what he tells me to do.”

“So - so now you’re going to do something, because he tells you _not_ to do it? How is that any different? You’re still letting him control you. Think a little bit before you — before you say things you don’t mean.”

He shook his head. He was picking at the nail of his right thumb, using the other hand — a nervous habit he’d picked up years ago when he injured himself, defending her, and was forcibly left-handed for months ... “I have thought about it.” Pause. “You.”

She couldn’t look at him, picking at himself like that. She put her hand over his. “Stop. Please. You don’t want to marry for ... for expediency, and that’s all our betrothal was. It was convenient for our fathers back _then,_ so they set it up; it’s not convenient right _now,_ so Lord Tywin broke it and summoned you home ... you’re old enough to make your own choices. And you're a man, Jaime, you’re allowed to choose your life. Don’t throw that away.” Her goddamned traitorous voice shook. "You don't need to marry me to get free of your father. You haven't thought this through. You don't know what you’re saying."

He was staring at her hand, still on his, calming his restless devastation. “I know _you."_

“You don’t _want_ me. You want to marry someone — someone else. Someone you love. I know you do.”

He turned his left hand and twined his fingers with hers, and her breath caught: but he only said “How do you know that, Brienne of Tarth?”

“B-because —“ Oh, how did he always make her feel like this — like she couldn’t breathe, like her ribs were bruised, like there was a knot in her belly she couldn’t untie. “Because I know you. The other boys talk about — about women, and girls, like they’re a collection of parts. And you don’t laugh, you don’t agree ...”

“I might prefer men to women.”

“No.” Her face flamed. “That is — maybe, but I — you’ve never been with — never that I know about, and — and you were -- when we -- "

She could not say: _I felt your cock get hard when we kissed._ But she reddened.

And Jaime smiled.“I remember _when we,_ yes _._ ”

She tried to take back her hand. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten. It was a long time ago.” A week and two days since they’d last kissed, not that she had counted them.

“Mm.”

“Jaime. Let go.”

To her surprise, he did. “Fine. Say for a moment, hypothetically, I agree that you are right and our marriage is the worst idea anyone has ever had. Right up there with turtle wine, and nightsoil stew.”

“Nightsoil — what? That’s disgusting.”

“If I leave you, what will you do?”

“I’ll become a knight.”

“No one will have you fight for them.”

She grit her teeth. “Anyone with any sense would see I'm as capable as a man."

“That’s my point,” he said, calm. “No one has any sense when they’re around you. Certainly I don’t. Why do you think I’m still here?”

“We’re _betrothed._ Do you need me to tell you the story again? When I was four years old, and you were --"

“I'm here because I’m in love with you,” he said.

Brienne’s legs gave out; she sat hard on the floor. _No._ “You’re a liar.”

“This doesn’t lie,” said Jaime. He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Something like stars or sparks or lightning went through Brienne. He was kissing differently than before, more assured, and oh she liked it, she liked _him_ , she did —

Jaime scowled at her. “You’ve been kissing someone else again. Is it that Giantsbane? I _told_ you I’d kill him.”

She shook her head. “No — no, Jaime. Just stop. Let go of me.”

He let go, but did not move. “Why _no?_ What are you saying no to?"

"All of it -- all of this. I can't marry you, you don't love me, your father already broke it off --"

"Who cares what he said? I want to wed _you_ , not some promise that our parents made. _You_. Stubborn, honest, honorable --"

"Ugly, tall, mannish --"

"Yes," said Jaime. "All those things. Even the bad ones. I know all of them and I still want you."

"You want — you want my body. That's only fucking."

"If it were _only fucking_ between us, we would have done it already. Don't you think? Haven't you been on yourself, thinking of me?" He looked at her expression and made a wry face. "Don't look that way, like it’s something to be ashamed of. Men do it plenty; why shouldn't women? I want you to think about me when you’re alone. You know I think about you. I imagine you flushed pink, like you are now," and he kissed her, soft. "Warm, as you are. You even smell good ..."

"Don't lie.” Gods, he was kissing her neck and it was impossible to think, impossible to even breathe normally. _Warm and pink --_ was she really? "I don’t smell good. I smell like ... old sweaty leather. Work and sunlight."

"You do. I love it." He bit down on her shoulder, and she writhed.” When we're fighting and you press down over me, it's all that I can do not to push you down and --"

"No. _No_.”

"Yes. Don't you feel that way?" And he shifted back, to see her face. "You go to your rooms afterwards and think about me. Especially if we’ve been _doing that.”_

"I don't." She absolutely did.

"Shame," said Jaime. "I've thought of you enough. How you move -- the noises you'd make -- Once I pushed against your body and my cock rubbed you and, and,” he gulped, “and you made a sound. I — I’ve thought about that sound. Often.” He pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “Don’t you think it would be fun to wed and bed me? See what other noises you can make?”

“No. No marriage.” She couldn’t think of _why not_ — only that it was impossible, that she couldn’t. She couldn’t marry him. He couldn’t love her. They could not.

She took a deep breath. “But there are other things we could do.”

His eyes were very green. “Don’t tease me.”

”Take me to bed,” said Brienne. “Now.”


	17. Jaime V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 07 August 2019.

She didn’t want to marry him.

He’d asked and _asked_ , he’d told her he loved her, he’d all but cut himself open and bled for her — and yet.

Instead: she went under the blankets and disrobed, tossing out clothes one by one.

Jaime turned from her to face the corner and stripped, dropping clothes on the floor, hands shaking.

She told him no. He asked and she said no, he told her he loved her and _she said no._ How can he go home like this, knowing Brienne did not want him?

But she wanted him for this, at least. She was under the linens and she saw him and made a squeak when he crawled next to her, and — and he was so so frightened. “Brienne?”

She kissed him. Wrapped her arms around him. Her bare arms. She was bare all the way down, he felt it.

Gods, gods. He had wanted this for so long and he’d be a fool to stall it or argue her away, but ... “Are you sure?”

She took his hand and ran it down her middle through her hair and to something soft and warm and oh wet, wet, and he wasn’t too lost to miss how her eyes closed when he moved against her.

He wanted to have her out in the open day, let the sun and the sky show all of her to the world. They should have done this on the roof all that time ago. He should have done this to her every damn day of his life.

She reached ran a curious finger against the base of his cock and Jaime re-evaluated his unfortunate choice of words. _They_ should have done this for years. Because he certainly wanted her participation. Earnest, avid, eager ...

He cleared his throat. “I hope you regret denying me for the last year or so.”

Brienne, predictably, was not contrite; she made a scornful snort.

Jaime pushed his finger inside her body, rough, and she bucked upwards. “That’s for your sass, my lady.”

She moaned and clenched, and her hand fell off of him. He could smell her, sweat and heat. He could damn near almost taste her.

“Please,” she said. “Jaime.”

“This isn’t enough? Gods.” His voice cracked like he was a damned boy, and he was leaking — if he didn’t take her soon, he’d act like a litttle boy in another way. But. “Maybe some more?”

“Please?”

He kissed her. “I love you.”

“Shut up,” she said, on a whining gasp. “Jaime, _please_.”

Are you sure, he wanted to ask again: but she was sure. He was the one hesitating. He didn’t know how to do this with someone who wasn’t being paid.

Brienne reached for him again and all sense and thought disappeared: there was only she.

She put her hand on his and together they brought him inside.

— he thought she was saying something, doing something, but she was kissing him too and shifting her body downwards to take in more, he was kissing her back and saying how perfect she was, how beautiful, how loved, Brienne. I’ve loved you for so long. Why don’t you ever let me say it?

She whimpered.

He stilled. “You’re alright? It doesn’t hurt you?”

“You talk too damn much.”

— her legs trembling around him, sweat running down his legs, she was digging her nails in his back and clenching around him, he was shaking all over and she was kissing him, arching up to meet him — and that was enough, too much — he finished in a shaking mess, and realized he was crying. “Brienne?” Her mouth, where was her mouth?

Her face was wet. His tears, or hers? He kissed her again and again, her shut eyes and her mouth and her neck. “Please be alright. Please tell me you’re alright. Tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“Jaime?”

Her voice was so unsure.

He tried to say something kind, something honest, and choked instead. How could he make up for this? What would she allow from him? “Brienne?”

“I will marry you,” she said.


	18. Brienne & Jaime II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 13 August.

_Might I ask (said the septon) why there is such haste?_

_Should true love be asked to wait?_ _Jaime said._

_and Brienne didn’t say anything at all. She was holding on to his hand like she’d run away if she ever let go._

In bed, again, afterwards:

“You need to explain. You _told_ me you would explain.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’m sure you _would_ prefer that,” said Jaime. “But we just agreed you’d obey me—”

“Hah.”

“And why wouldn’t you tell me, anyway? I’ve told you that I love you.” He smiled. “At this moment, I am entirely full of love.”

“You’re full of shit. Fine. I married you because I hate you.”

Jaime did not laugh. “That seems about right for your type of logic. Are all women as mad as you are?”

“If you ever try to find out, I will cut off your ... your head. I _don’t_ love you, Jaime. But I — I might be obsessed with you. I think about you when I wake up in the middle of the night. I think about you when I’m doing other things —“

“And other people, too? Like that Giantsbane? You’d be wasted on him, he wouldn’t know what to do with you —“

“Yes. I thought about you when he was on me because I didn’t _want_ him, I never wanted him, I wanted you—”

He kissed her.

She broke it off. “I wanted you and I hated it, I still want you and I hate it, and I hoped if we — if I let you ...” She gulped. “I wanted to lay with you and I hoped it would make it better but it made it _worse_. You’ve gotten inside me somehow — _don’t you dare smile, Jaime Lannister._ You’re in my bones and it hurts. It’s like being on fire. I burn all the time. And I can’t stop it. You’re the only thing that helps ...”

_Who can take the cloak from this woman? said the septon._

_Jaime looked at Brienne. She had no father here, no brother or uncle to take off the sign she belonged to Tarth._

_It hurt him, a little. It shouldn’t be like this. Even the maiden’s cloak, done in the colors and moons of her father’s house, looked old, verging on ragged. A noble lady should have her own, but this one belonged to the sept. How many poor girls had worn it before her?_

_Brienne, not given away, opened the clasps on her shoulders and let the cloak fall to the floor. She knelt in front of Jaime and let him affix his own colors to her._

_She pretended not to notice how long it took him, how his hands trembled._

Jaime made a face. “That’s not much of a declaration of love.”

“It’s not one at all. I told you, I don’t love you.”

“You are a _fool,_ Brienne of Tarth. What do you think love is? Something soft and delicate?”

“It’s kind, for one! It’s gentle — it doesn’t hurt going down —“

“Hells teeth, woman. You don’t want gentleness in a man. Someone who takes it easy on you, who doesn’t make you workn A man who gives up on you, because he doesn’t think you’re worth the trouble.” He snorted. “If your father loved you like that, you’d be embroidering silks and arranging flowers.”

“My father has never hurt me. You have.”

“So what? Are you afraid of pain? Knighthood _hurts_ , Brienne. Raising our children will hurt. They’ll break bones and get sick and fall in love with the wrong people, and every bit of it will hurt you. Does that mean you shouldn’t do it?” He pushed the hair behind her ears. “You’re not the sort of person to give in to fear. You don’t want things because of how hard it’ll be to get them. You want _first_ — and to hell with the cost.”

She was crying now.

_With this kiss (said Jaime) I pledge you my love, and he watched her mouth repeat the words. I take you for my lady and my wife._

_I take you, she said._

_You are one heart, one flesh, one soul, said the septon_

_and Jaime kissed her again and again_

_and Brienne smiled at him._

_He wouldn’t forget that she had_ _smiled._

Jaime said: “Do you truly want me? Not — not only fucking. Do you want me _around,_ for supper and midnight and fighting and making up, and for proving you wrong at least half the time? Do you want me with you?”

“You’re asking this when we’re already married?”

“I thought if I gave you a moment to think it over, you’d change your mind.”

She sniffed. “You’re right.”

“Brienne, listen. If you regret this, I’ll fix it. The marriage bit anyway. I’ll bribe the septon to forget it and lie, or I’ll abandon you, or — whatever you want. I want you to ... to want me”.”

“I don’t love you.”

“If you say one more word about love, I’ll — I’ll jump in the ocean and swim to Kings Landing.”

“I’d like to see you do it. Fighting off jellystingers and sharks.”

“Hateful wench,” he said, and kissed her lightly. “Wife, the moon is nearly in her bed, and I would be in yours. Ours.”

She flushed. “I’m sore.”

“I only want to sleep. You’ve worn out your man with rude argument.”

“It won’t be the last time you come off worse in a fight,” said Brienne, snuggling down: and they curled together, and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is the leetle spoon.


	19. Raven III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 13 August 2019.

Early early in the morning, Jaime slipped out of bed — kissing his wife on the mouth and cheek, smiling as she murmured something in her sleep.

He went barefoot to meet his new father and knocked firm on the door.

Lord Selwyn was awake, drinking coffee. He greeted Jaime in a long light robe tied at the waist and gestured that they should go to the hallway to speak; his bedpartner was not yet awake.

“Ser,” said Jaime, “I greet you as a son.”

Selwyn took a while to answer. “Did you spend the night in a sept, or in my daughter’s bed?”

“Both, ser.”

“Your father will not be pleased.”

“Lord Tywin is at Kings Landing. My wife and my goodfather and I am here, on Tarth.”

No reply.

“I will write him myself, but I wanted to offer you the courtesy of sending the first raven.”

Selwyn shrugged. “Write him when you will. I shall write also. There’s no need for this sort of formality between family, is there?”

Jaime knew a dismissal when he heard one. He bowed, and began to leave.

Selwyn said “Will she regret this?”

“No,” said Jaime, fierce.

And Selwyn returned to his bed, so Jaime did the same.

  
*

Jaime woke Brienne with his mouth on her neck, and she smiled. “Tourmond, that’s lovely. But my husband will be back soon.”

“You’re cruel to tease me like this.”

“You asssume it’s a joke.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off the covers, so she yelped and swore and sat up, tugging the blankets back around her waist.

He said: “I spoke to your father.”

“What? Why would you do that? What if I’d wanted to tell him? Gods, why won’t you leave well enough alone?”

“I can’t bed Selwyn’s daughter in his own house without his approval.”

“Later on,” said Brienne, “I will explain to you everything wrong with that sentence, and I’ll be sure to use small words so you understand. Was he ... was he angry?”

Jaime shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She relaxed. “You would know if he was angry. Are you going to write lord Tywin?”

“Not yet. Maybe not ever. I find myself uninterested in his opinions.” He dropped down against the bed and pulled the blankets over them both. “And anyway, I have other priorities just now.”

“Breakfast.”

“Mm. Yes. There are a few things I’d like to eat.”

“Lannister, take your hand off me.”

“Should I replace it with my mouth? Or some other body part?”

“Just kiss me awhile,” said Brienne. “I haven’t nearly gotten tired of kissing you yet. And then we’ll find something else we can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the astute reader will note that the tituar ravens are metaphorical.


End file.
